


A Hobbit called Mari

by raiyana



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Cultural Differences, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Hobbit Culture & Customs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29238690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: It began with a knock and Bilbo saying "Oh, there’s Mari" as he headed towards the pantry, Bofur obligingly following the wave of his hand in the direction of the door. "Let her in, will you?"Bofur expected a cousin; Bilbo had more than he could ever hope to keep count of.But when he opened the door, there was no pleasantly smiling chubby hobbit on the doorstep.There was anightmare.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Bofur
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27
Collections: 2021 My Slashy Valentine





	A Hobbit called Mari

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyLaran](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLaran/gifts).



> Special thanks to Whitefire & Gee Pranks on the Hobbit discord for inspiring this thing and helping me get it on paper, and to bunn for excellent betaing and keeping my Bilbo properly Bilboish!

Leaning back in his chair with a satisfied groan, Bofur surveyed the carnage before him, silently amazed at how much food Bilbo produced even when it was just the two of them. He felt pleasantly stuffed, but still managed to accept a small wedge of cheese, just for the pleasure of it. It was the same that Bombur had enjoyed so voraciously at the party before the Quest; Bofur rather regretted letting Bombur eat all of it without trying it himself. He had, of course, made up for that oversight since they came back to the Shire, enjoying more than his own share of the delicious yellow goodness.

Bilbo smiled at him, pink and plump and pleased, flushed with good cheer and ale – outside, it was cold midwinter, but inside the smial Bofur felt nothing but warmth and love.

And a full belly.

Patting said belly lightly, he half-wondered if he’d end up the size of Bombur. It was unlikely; he’d always been skinny compared to his brother, even though they ate more or less the same.

“Still hungry?” Bilbo asked, nodding at Bofur’s empty hand. His eyes were concerned; he too well remembered the pain of empty bellies, still, of tightening belts and fake smiles carrying all of them through.

Bofur looked at his hand, wondering if he’d really managed the whole wedge already. Surely not. Already, his gut felt like it might only fit Bombur’s cast-offs. He never had been in a place where food was so plentiful; even the best days after the reclamation of Erebor had been lean on supplies, needing to re-establish trade routes and farms both, neither task done as swiftly as Bilbo could obtain food at market.

“Nah,” he shrugged. “I’d only eat more for the pleasure of the flavour.” Glancing at Bilbo, Bofur felt a different sort of temptation rise, giving his beloved a slightly lascivious grin. “Though I could be in the mood to eat something _else_ ,” he added, letting his eyes wander.

“ _Oh!_ ” Bilbo squeaked, crimson red staining his cheeks as he fidgeted in his chair, but his eyes were bold when he returned the look, licking his lips slowly, still not used to being _desired_ quite so blatantly. Bilbo held his gaze, a far cry from the hobbit he had first met in this very smial, bolder now and willing to take what he desired. A bare foot slowly travelled up the inside of Bofur’s leg, coming to rest against his thigh – not quite high enough, but definitely high enough to tease. Bilbo took a drink from his mug, his foot slowly rubbing back and forth along Bofur’s thigh.

“ _Later_ ,” he promised, and Bofur would remember to hold him to that.

Reaching down to capture Bilbo’s ankle, he squeezed once in warning. Bilbo just smiled at him as though he was innocent as the driven snow. “Let’s clean up,” Bofur suggested drily, clearing his throat. He didn’t really want to move away from the table just yet. Bofur’s thumb ran slowly along the hardened sole of Bilbo’s foot, and he was sure he saw his eyes flutter closed for a moment. Bilbo’s curls shone so prettily in the candlelight and the sight of his own braid in those tawny locks always made Bofur’s heart flutter, mingled desire and satisfaction that this was _his_ husband.

His beloved.

Shown off for all to see, even if these Hobbits didn’t have the first clue about how much one could say with a simple braid.

“We should,” Bilbo agreed, pulling his foot away from Bofur’s callused fingers, with a smile that made Bofur’s groin tighten in expectation.

His hand suddenly bereft of purpose, Bofur returned it above the table, grabbing hold of his own cutlery.

“Careful with the knives,” Bilbo teased. Humming the familiar tune, Bilbo began gathering empty plates.

“Not to worry, my darling Burglar,” Bofur promised, grinning as he winked at him. “I’ll sharpen any of your blunt knives.”

Bilbo flushed again.

“Your mind is clearly in our bedroom,” he accused him.

“Well…” Bofur hummed. “Not _intentionally_ , there – but-”

“Innocent as a daisy, I’m _sure._ ” Bilbo picked up a stack of plates with a laugh. “I know you, Bofur.”

Bofur’s gaze followed the slight sway of his round arse as he walked towards the warm kitchen.

“Not my fault I’m married to a pretty hobbit who heats my blood with his smile!” Bofur called after him, smiling when Bilbo’s light laughter wafted over him in response. Picking up an armful of his own, he followed Bilbo into the kitchen, setting his burden on the counter next to Bilbo’s sink, already filled with hot soapy water. Pressing himself against Bilbo’s back, Bofur wrapped his arms around his love, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

“Technically, _you_ asked _me_ ,” Bilbo pointed out, wriggling back against him with a small happy sound. “So it is.”

Bofur was a bit surprised by the moan that escaped him in answer, hiding his face against Bilbo’s neck for a kiss or two that made him sigh and soften in his arms.

“Because I love you,” he murmured against the soft skin, feeling Bilbo tremble slightly in his arms when his hands roamed down to settle on his hips, thumbs rubbing in small circles. “Even if you didn’t understand my desires at first.”

“As I recall,” Bilbo sniped, sounding a bit too breathless to manage as he tilted his head to give Bofur better room to kiss his neck. “You were particularly – _oh!-btuse_ , yourself.”

“Whoever heard of courting with _flowers_ ,” Bofur teased, slipping a single finger beneath Bilbo’s waistband to play across the soft skin he found there. The pudge of his belly had returned with just the right _give_ compared to the first time he’d been allowed to touch his love, and Bofur smiled at the feeling.

“Any sensible Hobbit,” Bilbo grumbled, pinching Bofur’s thigh. “The honeycakes _alone_ should have been more than enough for some people!” It was an old argument both enjoyed – and Bofur had learned to appreciate the many things Hobbits could say with food and flowers – even if they never seemed to agree who was truly in the right.

“ _I_ made you gifts!” Bofur exclaimed, trying not to laugh at the fumbling way he’d presented Bilbo with the first of many courting gifts. “ _Any_ dwarf would have known what those buttons were,” he added, moving one hand to the buttons on Bilbo’s silken weskit – not the ones he had attempted to court his wee hobbit with, but a set he had carved for their first year of marriage celebration.

“Bebother and confusticate _you_ ,” Bilbo growled, a laugh hiding beneath the annoyance and the way he gasped when Bofur’s fingers slipped away from his buttons, teasing rather than undoing. The plate he had been holding sank into the tub unnoticed, disappearing beneath the bubbles.

Bofur grinned against his neck as he slowly traced a pattern, circling each button with a single finger as his lips continued to leave a mark along Bilbo’s neck sure to bring a few titters come market time tomorrow. Bilbo’s breath hitched in his throat, one soapy hand dripping onto his wrist when Bilbo grabbed for his chin-braid, using his new hold to bring Bofur’s face closer to his lips, the kiss carrying a slight edge of desperation.

Bofur was only too happy to oblige; he prayed that he’d never tire of the taste of those soft lips against his own. Bilbo’s fist in his beard only egged him on, at once possessive and possessed in turn.

“ _Leave the washing up for tomorrow, my sweet,_ ” he whispered, licking his way up to press a kiss to the slight point of Bilbo’s ear.

Bilbo’s soft moans were the best sort of music, he was sure, drinking each down like sweet wine.

“ _Later_ ,” Bilbo panted between kisses, pushing Bofur away from temptation for just a moment.

“Bil- _bo_ ,” Bofur whined against his tempting lips, hissing when Bilbo’s fine arse suddenly pressed against his front in a very demanding way. The thumb that had been caressing his hip stuttered in its rhythm, Bofur’s grip tightening.

“I don’t want to be surprised in bed by Mari,” Bilbo muttered regretfully, pulling away and releasing Bofur’s beard.

Bofur groaned in dismay. “You didn’t tell me there’d be people coming.” Releasing Bilbo from his embrace, Bofur took a step back, trying to regain a measure of self-control.

Bilbo glanced back at him over his shoulder, biting his lip in slight worry. “I’m sorry.”

Bofur tried not to find that as enticing as he really did, wanting to kiss that adorable pout though he knew that if he did that and Bilbo _let him_ – and Bilbo would, because he was as warm-blooded as Bofur, his own desire more than evident – they’d end up with someone bent over the counter in the best possible way.

Not something he wanted to have company for, at all. Bad enough trying to sneak a kiss or two on the road; Bofur rather thought he was done sneaking around for life.

“They won’t stay long,” Bilbo added.

“Dinnae fret, Bilbo,” Bofur soothed, pressing a kiss against his forehead. “I’m no stripling incapable of patience for pleasure.” Waggling his eyebrows, Bofur was pleased when Bilbo laughed, swatting at him with the pot brush in jest.

“Go get the rest of the dishes then!” he threatened, giving Bofur a cheeky smile.

Giving Bilbo’s mouth one last longing look, Bofur retreated to the dining room, telling his own body to calm down as he gathered another load of their detritus, the sound of Bilbo splashing with the soapy water inspiring a whole new array of images that had very little to do with making anything _cleaner_.

This Mari, whoever she was – a cousin, probably, Bilbo had too many of those to keep track of for any sensible Dwarf – could not come soon enough.

Because once she had arrived, she would be that much closer to _leaving_.

Bofur smiled.

When the dining room was cleared and all the plates and cutlery had been dried, Bilbo’s cousin had still not arrived and Bofur was slightly peeved about that; it was mighty late to be visiting anyone’s house, he thought, though Bilbo didn’t seem to mind, humming an unfamiliar tune to himself as he stuffed his pipe.

Lighting his own, Bofur leaned back in his armchair by the fire and picked up his newest project – Bilbo’s gardener needed new clogs – and the soft sound of his whittling knife snicking away slivers of wood soon filled the evening calm. In the grate, a merry fire blazed, and Bilbo continued to get up to stir the pot hung on its swinging arm to warm there, filling the air with a redolent scent of spices and warmth.

“An excellent drink,” Bofur nodded, eyeing the pot hungrily. The cider was new to him but had quickly become a favourite during the crisp autumn days and this winter version was no less potent, bringing warmth and cheer to even the most frozen dwarf after a day’s hard work.

The Hobbits had no mines, but Bofur had made himself useful with his carpentry skills regardless, filling his days with work enough to earn a living even if Bilbo told him that wasn’t necessary; the rents from the Baggins holdings were more than enough to keep the two of them fed.

“It’s for Mari’s party,” Bilbo nodded, stirring the warming cordial carefully.

“It’s a whole party?” Bofur wondered, giving him a surprised look.

Bilbo didn’t tend to like parties, after all, and not in Bag End, at all.

“Usually,” Bilbo shrugged, focused on his pot, “there’s a few fiddlers along, at least.”

There was a knock on the door, echoing loudly through the smial.

Bofur got to his feet, stretching.

“That’ll be Mari,” Bilbo smiled, leaving the ladle be and walking towards his pantry. “Go open the door, will you?”

Bofur nodded, wandering through the hallway to the green door.

“Mari Baggins,” he greeted as he let the door swing back on pleasantly silent hinges that had been oiled only a fortnight before.

Then he froze.

On the flagstone there was no friendly hobbit matron, plumply pretty like he had expected.

There was a _nightmare_.

The white bone jaw snapped at him once or twice, a fiddler behind it playing a discordantly cheerful tune, and then it _sang_.

”Wel dyma ni'n dwad, Gyfeillion diniwad. Wel dyma ni'n dwad, Gyfeillion diniwad. I ofyn am gennod, I ofyn am gennod. I ofyn am gennod – i ganu!” The skull’s eyes glowed with malevolence, runes of power snaking across pale bone till they met colourful ribbons and a white shroud. Death’s steed, surely it was, a vision of nightmares straight from his grandfather’s old tales of witch-kings and wickedness.

Bofur thought he might have screamed.

Shouting a wealth of angry Khuzdul at the wicked spirit, he slammed the door closed, grabbing for the mattock leaned against the wall beside it in case the monster decided to knock the door down.

“…Bofur?”

“Shire’s haunted,” Bofur barked, tightening the grip on his mattock as he glared at the door. Outside there was no sound. “Think I spelled it off,” he added, throwing a smile over his shoulder at Bilbo, “but I’ll sleep by the door just in case.” Then he turned to look at his husband properly.

“…Haunted?” Bilbo asked cautiously.

“Why are you holding a cheese wheel, Bilbo?” Bofur asked at the same time – since when was _cheese_ appropriate to ward off the evil spirits of dark kings? – blinking at Bilbo as he tried to make sense of him.

“It’s for the Mari,” Bilbo replied, lifting the cheese platter to indicate the door. “Bofur… Do you not have Mari Lwyd in Ered Luin?”

“…”

“It’s… a winter tradition?” Bilbo tried, attempting to walk past Bofur though he stopped when Bofur’s free hand wrapped around his upper arm. “The Mari’s party sing at different houses and bring cheer in the dark and luck in the coming spring; we give them cheese or cake and mulled cider as we share the bounties of our harvest.”

“… It’s a hobbit in a _costume_?” Bofur asked, loosening his grip on Bilbo’s arm.

“Well, also the skull of a large horse,” Bilbo shrugged. “It’s supposed to be festive – you sing verses at each other, playfully insulting at times, or simply entertaining.”

“So it’s _not_ a force of deep malevolence trapped by the Witch-King?” Bofur asked, beginning to feel a little calmer when Bilbo shook his head, still looking deeply bemused. “Ah,” Bofur said, setting his mattock back down and scratching at the back of his head. “I guess I didn’t have to throw grandfather’s spell at it, then.”

“What did you say?” Bilbo asked, clearly trying not to laugh as he set the cheese platter on his mother’s glory chest.

“Err… it’s in Khuzdul,” Bofur shrugged, “but it’s something like ‘This house is protected, o spirit of the lost wailing in the wind. Begone servant of darkness, slither back beyond the unknown. Maker’s children abide here; you may not cross the threshold of our forges!’” He could feel his cheeks warming. “It’s something my grandparent said – they’re the one’s told me stories of spirits,” he added hastily.

“Well, I’m glad to know you’re able and willing to scare off evil spirits,” Bilbo chuckled, kissing his cheek once. “My darling dwarf warrior.”

The warmth in Bofur seemed to change, simultaneously filling his cheeks with fiery embarrassment and his hearth with a glowing ember of love. “I’ll always protect you,” he promised hoarsely, wrapping his arms around the most precious hobbit in the world.

“I know,” Bilbo replied softly, cupping his cheeks. “And I love you.” Then he smiled. “But we should let the Mari in – I want you to experience our traditions fully.”

Bofur nodded, though he kept a hold on Bilbo’s hand when he let go of him, steeling himself for the monstrous sight waiting beyond the door.

Bilbo opened the door.

But the fiddlers and the ghastly skull were nowhere to be seen.

Bofur tried not to feel relieved.

“I suppose they moved on,” Bilbo shrugged, tilting his head to listen.

“You… want to follow them?” Bofur asked cautiously. It might only be a Hobbit in a costume, but he had no desire to flyte with the skull of a long-dead horse regardless.

“Nah,” Bilbo shrugged. “I think the music’s coming from down near Lobelia’s smial.”

“I’d flyte _her_ ,” Bofur offered, feeling a sense of anticipation at all the things he could call his husband’s least favourite cousin.

Bilbo laughed brightly – there was a glint in his eye that told Bofur that he might take him up on the offer one day – closing the door again.

“No, I’d rather you stay here with me and put your clever tongue to better uses,” he murmured, drawing Bofur into a kiss by his chin-braid.

“That could be arranged,” Bofur grinned, licking into Bilbo’s sweet mouth and losing himself in a kiss or twenty.

“ _Good_ ,” Bilbo replied cheekily, drawing back with a smile that promised all sorts of nice things to come. “I’ll pour us a goblet of the cider – no sense wasting it – if you’ll put the cheese back in the pantry.”

“I can do that,” he promised, picking up the platter with its cheese wheel, a jaunty tune on his lips as he walked back to the pantry. “That’s one tradition of yours I _do_ like.”

Walking back into the sitting room, Bofur touched the braid hanging from his chin, watching his husband carefully pour a ladle of gently steaming cider into a mug. The firelight glowed across his skin, and the moan he uttered when he tried a sip of the heady brew was downright indecent. Bofur’s hand closed around the braid, the earlier arousal returning with a vengeance as he watched his husband. Bilbo had plaited it for him, among many curses of his own fumbly fingers and Bofur's sleek hair in turn, a match to the short braid Bofur made along Bilbo’s temple every morning.

Coming to a halt behind Bilbo, Bofur wrapped his arms around him, squeezing gently. “Do you know how much I love you, Bilbo darling?” he whispered, kissing Bilbo’s cheek and then the wooden bead in his braid.

Bilbo might have little skill at braiding – even after a full year of marriage – but he still tried to share in those things and traditions because they mattered to Bofur.

Because Bofur mattered to _him_.

And maybe Bofur could trade scathing rhymes with a skull for that reason, too. Once he had kissed Bilbo properly, of course.

* * *

_What Bofur saw:_

__

_A Hobbit Mari by[Gee Pranks](https://geetimesthree.tumblr.com/) ;)_

**Author's Note:**

> [The talented Gee Pranks also drew a very handsome picture of our world Mari, which was part of what sparked the whole thing - enjoy!](https://geetimesthree.tumblr.com/post/637864388826726400/old-grey-mare-aint-what-she-used-to-be)


End file.
